Bar Conversations
by Cody'sxFavoritexGirl
Summary: Random bar conversations between various Superstars. First up: CM Punk and Randy Orton. Reviews are welcome.


**A/N: This is just a little thing that popped into my head randomly. I may continue it if it gets a good enough response. Reviews are very welcome. I own nothing.**

**Bar Conversations**

CM Punk took a sip of his Pepsi and sighed. He hated having to come to a pub for his favorite kind of soda, but it seemed to be the closest place in London that served Pepsi. Being surrounded by so much alcohol made his skin itch, and Punk shifted uncomfortably on his barstool.

"You okay?" Punk's somewhat-friend and fellow wrestler Randy Orton asked. Randy was perched on the barstool next to Punk, drinking his fourth or fifth beer. It was well after midnight, but neither man could sleep, so they'd both somehow ended up here. They didn't have a show tomorrow so the thought of going back to the hotel and getting some rest never crossed their minds. Punk was on his sixth Pepsi.

"Yeah, I'm just a little anxious," Punk replied, taking a large gulp of his soda and watching other people drink their beers with disgust written plainly across his face. "How can they drink that shit?"

"After a few of 'em, they don't taste like shit anymore," Randy answered. He swallowed the rest of his beer and slammed the glass down on to the counter. The bartender immediately swooped in and replaced it with a new one.

Punk glared at the bartender. "He didn't need another one."

"Yeah I did," Randy interjected, draining half the glass in one tremendous gulp. The bartender shot Punk a smug look.

"That's your last one, right?" Punk asked Randy, beginning to get a little concerned. Randy never usually drank this much, even if they went out to a club with the other guys.

"Hell no," Randy snorted. "I'm just getting warmed up, Punky."

The fact that Randy had called him "Punky", a nickname that he knew he hated, told Punk that Randy was well on his way to an alcohol-induced coma. Normally Punk would scoff at people who drank that much, but he happened to like Randy, so he decided to help him out.

Punk waved the bartender over and told him in a lowered voice, "That's his last beer for the night."

The bartender frowned. "No way mate, he's my best customer."

Punk seized the bartender's collar and yanked him closer. "Listen, if you don't cut him off right now, I'm going to put your arm in the Anaconda Vise and pull until I rip it out of its socket. Have we reached an understanding?"

The bartender swallowed heavily, and a bead of sweat ran down his pockmarked forehead. "We have."

"Good." Punk released him, and the man scurried away to the other end of the bar.

"What was that about?" Randy asked, tilting his head in the direction of the bartender.

"Nothing," Punk said. Luckily, Randy was too drunk to pursue the subject further.

"Randy?" Punk said, suddenly struck by a thought. "How'd you get here?"

"I drove, dumbass," Randy replied. He leaned backwards as though he was sitting on a chair with a back and almost fell off of the barstool. Punk grabbed his arm and yanked him back up.

"Thanks, man," Randy slurred.

"No problem," Punk muttered, extracting his phone from his pocket and turning it on. He scrolled through his contacts until he found Cody Rhodes' cell number, and he quickly typed up a new text message: **Randy and I are at a bar on 31****st**** St. Randy is wasted. Can you come get him?**

About five minutes later Cody replied: **Gotta get Ted up. B there in 10. Don't let Randy kill himself b4 we get there.**

Punk snorted at Cody's text. "I'll try," he muttered under his breath.

"Hey, Rands, what's up with you?" he asked Randy. "You never drink this much. Is something going on with Sam?"

At the mention of his wife, Randy seemed to sober up. "Let's not talk about her, Punk."

_Bingo, _Punk thought. "Why not?"

"I just don't want to." Randy's tone of voice usually would've meant that the subject was closed, but Punk was too curious to stop.

"What's going on, Randy?"

"Punk, dammit, just let it go," Randy snapped.

"No," Punk said. "Tell me."

"Punk-"

"Tell me!"

"She cheated on me, all right?" Randy shouted, slamming his large hand down on the counter. The bartender jumped a foot and stared at Randy with wide, frightened eyes. Punk just watched Randy quietly, his head cocked to one side. "Are you happy now?" Randy demanded, glaring at Punk. "Jesus…"

Randy put his arms on the counter and rested his head in his hands, his eyes tightly closed.

"How did you find out?" Punk asked, his voice soft.

Randy lowered his hands and opened his eyes. He stared off into the distance as he spoke. "I found out last week. I had three days off so I flew home. I didn't call—I wanted it to be a surprise. Well, both of us got a nasty surprise."

"He was there?" Punk murmured. "The other guy, I mean."

Randy nodded. "I wanted to kill him," he confessed, his voice hoarse. "But most of all, I wanted to kill her. I know that being married to me is hard. Hell, I'm gone three-hundred days of the year. But she couldn't have just broken it off with me? Why the fuck did she have to go behind my back and do that? Why did she have to hurt me like that? I just don't understand…"

Randy stopped talking abruptly, and Punk saw his shoulders heave as he turned his head away.

"Fuck, Randy," Punk muttered, sympathy lacing his voice. "Why didn't you tell John? Or Cody and Ted? Hell, even me? We would've helped you."

Randy gave a bitter laugh. "Right, so I can look weak? I'd rather not." He raised a hand and swiped at his eyes, cursing under his breath. But he couldn't hold back the tears, and they began to roll down his cheeks. "Shit!"

Punk knew Randy was embarrassed, so he didn't say anything typical, like "It's not your fault" or "She wasn't worth it". Instead, Punk held out his arms. "Come here, tough guy."

Randy looked like he was going to refuse, but then he gave in and allowed Punk to pull him into an embrace. Punk patted his back comfortingly and blew out a sigh. All he'd wanted was a Pepsi, and instead he was hugging quite possibly the toughest guy in the WWE while he bawled like a baby. But Punk didn't mind. If he could help Randy in any way possible, he would, simply because he respected him. Hell, he maybe even considered him a friend. Punk didn't have too many friends in the WWE; most of the wrestlers thought that his straight-edge lifestyle was either stupid or boring. Only a few, like John Cena, Cody, Ted DiBiase, Daniel Bryan, and Randy accepted him.

Across the bar, the bartender was staring with his mouth hanging open at the sight of stoic, strong Randy sobbing. Punk flipped him the bird, and the bartender shut his mouth with a snap and turned his back on them.

Randy regained his composure after a few minutes, and he sat back, shrugging Punk off. "I'm fine, I'm fine," he muttered, his eyes bloodshot. He glanced at the large damp spot on the shoulder of Punk's gray T-shirt. "Sorry about that."

Punk shook his head. "Don't be," he told Randy. "Everyone has to cry sometimes. It's not just you, so you shouldn't be embarrassed by it. Believe it or not, I cry too. I know that's so hard to believe what with my tough exterior…"

Randy snorted. "Yeah, you just totally blew my mind."

Before Punk could reply, the door to the bar swung open, and Cody Rhodes entered, followed closely by Ted DiBiase. Both of them looked exhausted, and Ted was dressed in a pair of cotton pajama pants and nothing else. Despite their lack of sleep, both of them became instantly alert at the sight of Randy looking so disheveled.

"Rands?" Cody said, hurrying over to him and Punk. "You okay?"

"You look like shit," Ted added, trailing behind Cody.

"Hey, blondie," the bartender called. "No shoes, no shirt, no service!"

"Bite me," Ted called back. The bartender looked furious and started to move toward him, but Cody shot him a look that was pure ice, and he backed away once again.

"Thanks, Teddy," Randy said to Ted. "You always know just what to say."

Ted rolled his eyes while Cody smirked.

"You don't look too wasted," Cody said, looking Randy up and down.

"He was worse a few minutes ago," Punk explained.

"Hey, what are you two doing here anyways? And why do you both look like you just rolled out of bed?" Randy questioned, raising his eyebrows at his two protégés. "Don't you guys have matches tomorrow?"

"Punk texted me telling me to come down and get you," Cody informed him. "He wasn't going to let you drive home in your condition."

Randy turned to Punk. "I'm not _that _wasted."

"Randy, you almost fell off of your stool," Punk pointed out. "Imagine what you'd be like doing something that required hand-eye coordination."

"Mmmm…okay, I'll give you that one," Randy conceded. He stood up with some assistance from Cody and Ted and started fumbling for his wallet in his back pocket. Punk waved him off. "It's fine, Rands," he said with a kind smile at the Viper. "I'll take care of it. You go get some sleep."

"Thanks Punk," Randy said. He locked eyes with Punk, and in his gray-blue gaze Punk could tell that he was thanking him for more than just taking the tab.

"You're welcome," Punk replied. He tilted his head in the direction of Ted and Cody and said, "Now don't you have something to go and do?"

A ghost of a smile drifted across Randy's lips and then vanished. "Yeah, I do," Randy said.

Gripping Ted and Cody's shoulders, Randy walked between them to the door. "Listen, you two," he began as they exited the pub. "There's something I need to tell you guys…"

The rest of Randy's sentence was cut off as the door drifted shut, and Punk swung himself back around to face the bar. He retrieved his wallet from his back pocket and counted out the right amount of bills to cover Randy's beers and his own Pepsis. "Damn, Randy's expensive," Punk muttered to himself as he slapped the money down on the counter. "Hey, mate," he called to the bartender, who came over looking very reluctant to serve Punk.

"What do ya want?" The bartender snapped, sounding very irritated.

"You treat all your customers like that?" Punk couldn't resist jibing.

"Only the annoyin' ones," the bartender retorted, grabbing a cloth off of the drying bar and picking up a dirty glass.

"You're just pissed off that I didn't order any alcohol," Punk said, and then he added, "I want another Pepsi."

"Anything to get you outta here," the bartender muttered just loud enough for Punk to hear him. The bartender set the cloth and glass down and retrieved a fresh glass.

"No, I want it to go. Can, not glass," Punk specified.

The bartender cast him a dirty look as he replaced the glass. "Ya couldn't have mentioned that before?"

Punk shot him an innocent smile. "I didn't want to bother you."

The bartender snorted and retrieved a can of Pepsi from the freezer under the bar. Slamming it down on the counter, he growled, "Here's your fucking Pepsi."

Punk just smiled, not at all offended or infuriated by the bartender's vulgar language. "Thank you," he said calmly. Then he slid the stack of bills across the counter. "Here's your fucking money," he told the bartender.

Grabbing the cold can of Pepsi, Punk hopped off of the stool and headed for the door, calling, "Have a nice day," over his shoulder at the stunned bartender.

Once he was outside, Punk stood in the yellow light of a streetlamp and laughed out loud. Popping the tab on the soda, the Straight-Edge Savior strolled casually down the sidewalk in the direction of his hotel, laughing at the world.


End file.
